


Miss Missing You (Now and Again)

by ChaoticEther



Category: RWBY
Genre: A few more people make minor appearances, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Greek Freckles, Bumbleby - Freeform, F/F, Musician!Blake, Photographer!Yang, Some Graphic Descriptions of Violence, modern setting au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 15:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21163811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticEther/pseuds/ChaoticEther
Summary: It's hard to not fall in love when you can see echoes of your past life. Maybe meeting your soulmate can make the echoes fade. Yang met Blake once before, at the cost of her arm. This time things will be different.





	Miss Missing You (Now and Again)

**Author's Note:**

> The ideas in this AU are kinda (a lot) crazy, but it's basically a mix of all the ideas I couldn't turn into AUs on their own, and I think the end result is something I'm finally happy posting after a few months trying to make them all work separately.

Blake's always had this... this void, right where her heart is supposed to be. Like she's grown to be 24 years old and some big, important part of her life never happened when it should've. Like she ran from it. Sketches from that day all the way up until now of the same blonde woman, lilac eyes the shade of Blake's own soul. That's probably the most fucked up part. She _misses _someone she's never properly met before. Misses her like she's not supposed to.

“I don’t get it!” Blake admits, ranting to no one besides herself and the ghosts in her single-bedroom apartment.

Sometimes she wakes up and swears the mystery girl is propped up on the edge of the bed beside her. She’s mumbled nonsense about skipping work to that apparition more times than she’d like to admit. No clue what her name is, but Blake knows she’s a photographer, knows far too many details for it to be made up. Her lips taste like whisky and cherry lip balm; she thinks Blake’s taste of smoke and vodka and desire. Tugging at a loose thread on her black t-shirt, she can’t help but wonder if the girl that’s made a home in her mind is the same way. Details ricocheting off her skull over and over so much that everything else blurs.

-

Ruby waves at her older sister as she arrives, red corset with black laces balanced out by the inverse of her boots, matching skirt flared around her knees and bouncing as she does. She’s a bridesmaid; hand-picked by Weiss because her affinity for red is beaten out only by Pyrrha’s. Plus, it was even more of an incentive for Yang to take the job.

“It feels like I haven’t seen you in ages!” The younger sister exclaims, oblivious to the attention she’s garnered by shouting.

“I’ve been busy. Weiss can be a bitch when she actually wants something from me.” Yang pulls her blazer on as she explains, hands slipping behind her neck and working blonde hair free before tying it up.

Ruby hums in agreement, having been witness to their meetings before, “what _did_ she want from you this time?” The end of the question is muffled by a hug, but she gets an answer all the same,

“Engagement photos. For this wedding, actually.”

“That’s it?”

“Pyrrha’s her ex. Can’t have anything less than perfection when you want to show someone how good you’ve been doing without them.” She shrugs, not understanding the reasoning any more than Ruby as she breaks the embrace. “The cheque already cleared, so I kinda have to be here as well.”

Yang turns around, looking back at the entryway to the grand house the wedding is being held in, to the red hair in a high ponytail with a matching dress, split up one side and exposing most of Pyrrha’s upper thigh, its neckline plunging the acceptable amount and loose on her shoulders. She’s greeting everyone at the door, but what catches Yang’s eye more is her white-haired friend, clipboard in hand and whispering into the bride’s ear. Weiss looks stunning; not her type, but stunning all the same, sequins of her grey dress glinting in the hall’s lights, on tiptoe even in heels to come close to Pyrrha’s height. She notices the matching silver glitter eyeshadow when her steps catch Weiss’s attention, pointing to her camera and waiting for the pair to fix themselves.

-

Pyrrha’s arm interlocking with hers is what pries her mask away, stripping composure, left wearing only honesty. She’s always been the type to love too much and too fast, too raw for long exposures. And she never stops. It stays locked away when she can help it, but her former girlfriend’s touch overrides the combination, swings a door open for everyone to see. Thankfully, Yang is the only one who notices, tells them ‘Weiss blinked’ and lines up another so casually that it could be the truth.

“Are you doing okay?” Yang enquires afterwards, throwing the mask to the floor and asking the real Weiss beneath.

“I will be.” The assurance clings to her voice in spite of her shaking form, “I thought I’d be able to deal with it better knowing they’re _actually _getting married instead of pretending today was never going to happen.”

Yang rubs circles on her back as she sighs, “now you know how I feel. Pretending something never happened.”

-

Weiss has called her crazy for that so many times she’s lost track, told her to ‘shut up and look for another girl’ even more so. Yang would still rather be looking in shadows and from them, much preferring an exposé to a lawn outside a fancy mansion on the outskirts of Mistral. Still, she wasn’t about to half-ass a job just because she disliked it, blue blazer neatly fastened over a plain white shirt with the top few buttons undone. Classy, but available. At least, she _was, _until she saw Mrs. Amitola’s maid of honour.

Two silver earrings arranged neatly on one ear, twitching slightly as a soft laugh works its way out of the faunus girl’s mouth. Midnight-black hair pulled neatly up into a bun, curled bangs left hanging either side of her face, deep purple lipstick identical to her eyeshadow and leaving a stain on the glass of wine as she sips politely. A royal blue backless dress with a lace halter-neck flows to the floor, cinched in at her waist by a thick black belt and mostly hiding the white tennis shoes underneath.

“Mind if I get some photos?” Yang smirks, shifts her weight onto her right leg and rests a hand on her hip. She’s almost regretting that it isn’t _their _wedding instead. There’re bridges to rebuild before anything close can happen.

“Oh, uh, sure! Just let me get Ilia-!” Blake turns to leave, picks one of the brides out of the crowd easily and makes one step before she’s spun around to face the blonde again, gasping.

“These are for me. Not the happy couple.” Yang imagines a flicker of recognition in Blake’s eyes.

Maybe she doesn’t. It might actually be real. _I’ve looked for you this whole time, _it screams, fire igniting the fields of yellow and gold, burning through the very concept of living that Yang was used to, begging her to get lost in the flames and reclaim what was hers. Every single detail already memorised, perfectly engraved onto her mind for as long as she could remember, occupied space within her ribcage finally making perfect sense. _It’s you_, Yang thinks, _who else could it be?_

“Well then…” Blake trails off, eyebrow raising and asking for a name. She knows the answer before it even comes, anyway.

“Yang.”

“…Yang, I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

Hearing her name coming from the raven-haired girl’s mouth again is nearly enough to send her over the edge all on its own.

-

“She’s way out of your league, Yang,” Weiss is tired of trying to explain how insane her friend sounds.

“I know,” she replies quietly, leafing through a brochure for Vale Academy.

“Then why are you so obsessed with going where she supposedly is?”

“I have to see it for myself.” Her expression steels, memories of lives she hasn’t lived piling up and pressing down on her chest, all the time spent with someone she can’t even remember the name of, outlines in the mist of her mind.

Lilac eyes softly close, and in an instant her right arm isn’t flesh and bone anymore; instead, it’s cold, dead, unfeeling save for the pressure of her soulmate’s hand against it. She daren’t call her that out loud, but that’s what she is, has to be. All the shapes Yang sees in the night, the presence that wraps itself around her when nightmares jolt her awake, it’s all the same person, really. She’s written countless songs about Yang’s life, perches cross-legged on the sofa with a guitar in her apartment to sing them and soothe spirits that shouldn’t even be there. _Let me dance with your demons, _she begs, hopes her soulmate hears, _I can set you free._

“Are you okay?” Weiss asks, head tilting as Yang focuses back on her.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just… It’s gonna sound crazy, but I miss her, you know?”

“You’re right, it does sound crazy.” The ice queen offers no sympathy, as expected. “But I’m not stopping you from proving you aren’t.” She almost gives a genuine smile, only to think better of the idea and hold her lips in a line as she stands to leave.

“I’ll find her,” Yang adds, and it actually succeeds in bringing Weiss pause.

“You know what the worst part is?” She sighs, rubs her fingers against her temple, “I actually believe you.”

-

Away from all the other guests, Blake finally notices just how fast her heart is racing around the photographer. Alone together, like they should be, golden sun along the horizon outshined by Yang burning strong as ever in front of it. Blood finds its way to all the places she wished it wouldn’t go, colouring her face and neck as she does her best to look at the camera lens instead of a few inches south. She fails, of course, wonders if the sound of buttons popping open would carry through the autumn air, and whether Yang’s moans might do the same.

“I’m Blake, by the way,” she tacks it on like an afterthought, like it didn’t matter. Like Yang already knows her.

“Blake, huh?” Yang repeats, as if questioning the girl’s very existence. “How about we try one with your hair down?”

The faunus acquiesces, pulls a hairpin and elastic out of the bun, fixing it slightly as it falls in waves against her back.

That’s when the image in her mind lines up perfectly with the girl in front of her. It was a winter night, but she remembers it clear as day. The sword, the blood, the red of it all, how he snarled at Blake while she was backed up into a corner, turning him around and losing an arm, losing _her _afterwards in the hospital. In the torrent, she’d failed to see the string of fate tying them together. Now, it winds around her prosthetic, other arm shaking far too much to get a good picture, entire body railing against the recollection. A defeated sigh rises in her chest, dropping the camera against her stomach only to jump a little when a pair of hands wraps around her own.

“That was you,” the faunus exhales, reaches so she’s holding both of Yang’s hands. “You saved me.”

“And you ran.” _Like you always do._ She looks everywhere besides Blake; tries to, at least. There’s a sting down her arm that doesn’t exist anymore, an unspoken pressure as someone else’s hand squeezes it, pretends it’s real.

“Yang, I-”

“’Yang’ nothing.” Her hand snaps away, only regretting it when she sees the same confusion reflected in her own eyes. “…Nothing that makes sense, anyway.”

“I remember you,” _I remember more than you. _“I remember-”

“-That night in the alleyway.”  
“That night in the alleyway.”

They chorus the words together. Yang turns, curiosity overriding any urge to leave or be angry.

“You’d burn the world for me,” Blake prompts, vision flooding with burning gold and gleaming red eyes.

“I wouldn’t,” the taller girl corrects, “I’d have burned this whole damn universe for you.”

They’d sound insane to anyone else. More insane to themselves. They’re the singularity that everything revolves around; the centre of it all, the originals from before the mirror shattered and left them staring at each other through the splinters and cracks. Maybe that’s why Yang’s still staring at Blake when she has every right to leave. The dreams are real to some version of her.

-

“You _have _to come, Blake. I’m asking you to be my maid of honour.” Ilia rubs her arm nervously, instantly regretting the commanding tone she’d chosen.

“What’s in it for me?” She shoots back, eyebrows raising and mouth hidden behind a large coffee cup.

They’ve been friends since forever. Even when Adam managed to sink his claws into Blake, Ilia had stayed with her. When she confessed, poured everything out right for Blake to see, eyes flickering between pink and ice blue, she managed to give her hope despite looking so hopeless herself. A flicker of who she used to be resting under a tattered bow, dishevelled hair and bruised shoulders.

“You get to see me get married, for a start. If you’re lucky you might meet someone.”

“Like the last guy you told me to get with?” Blake smirks, gives away she isn’t completely serious.

“Hey! Sun was nice!” Her eyes briefly flash the same yellow as her skin, notices how much Pyrrha’s been rubbing off on her all at once.

“He was nice, but he wasn’t…” The singer trails off, lets her best friend fill in the blanks.

“I know, I know,” Ilia throws her hands up, officially burying the subject by echoing some of her lyrics back at her, “‘Cold steel and gold is the only way to my heart,’ right? at least he had one of those two.”

“I’ll do it.” Blake tacks on, abrupt yet believable. “Be your maid of honour, I mean. Need an excuse to get out of my apartment anyway.”

It goes unsaid between them, rings only through looks and reflexive touches; Blake’s spoken for, even if they never end up together. Sun had been an attempt to convince herself otherwise, a fact he was remarkably understanding of, given the way she’d tried to explain it, their romance over with an empathetic hug and a sighed ‘_soulmates, huh.’_ Maybe everyone felt like this about _someone._ Except she was sure that couldn’t be true. No one else could love like that.

-

Yang’s waiting for her to run. Actually, she’s _begging _for Blake to run, knows staying will only get them both hurt. Of course, she can’t really leave with Yang’s arms around her waist and head resting between her ears, startled gasp still choked in her lungs.

“I thought I’d lost you.” Yang half-sobs, pulls back to find her focus in gold.

“You did, for a few years,” Blake wrestles a smile onto her features, smudges makeup with the back of her hand as she wipes tears away. “Lost myself as well.” She doesn’t go into it, knows Yang remembers the reds and blues just as clearly.

“But I never even-”

“I was _always _yours. Ilia said I acted like I was married. Guess she wasn’t far off.”

“Honestly? I think we’re like, soulmates, or something.” Her hand trails through flowing black hair.

“You believe in all that?” Blake giggles, interlaces her hand with Yang’s prosthetic. _I do._ _I’ve written entire albums about you._

“No, I’m just saying it all to get you into bed.” Yang whispers against the shorter girl’s ear, almost believing it herself for a second. _I’ve waited five years to meet you again. Don’t make me wait another night._

“I wouldn’t mind that either,” she sighs, only realising she’s held against the wall as Yang’s mouth sinks to meet her neck, sucking and biting at a pulse point.

-

She’d always had gifts. At least, that’s what her Mum had told her when she was little. _You’re special, and so’s the girl you dream about. _At seventeen, she finally started to understand why. A stabbing pain in her stomach, disgustingly familiar figure lurching back as the ghost of a blade pulled out of her abdomen.

“You saw it.” Raven assumes, eyes narrowing. “Your mother was right. You really are like me.”

“Who… was that!?” Yang pants, clutching her side, no energy available to show distaste for her birth mother.

“No one you know. Literally.” She places her white bike helmet onto the kitchen table, continues like it’s not the first time she’s shown up in years, framed by the moonlight leaking around Yang’s shoulder, “reality isn’t as concrete as you’d think. Sometimes it bends, sometimes it breaks. You and I, we…” Raven faulters, and for once Yang thinks she actually looks like a human being. “We’re too stubborn to play by the rules.”

“What?”

“I see things I shouldn’t. Know… knew, things about Summer that no one else could.” Her hair spills over the back of the chair as she sits down, finally looks at her daughter instead of through her.

Except, she hardly recognises Yang. The young woman’s spark hasn’t flickered out and died like Raven’s own, burning bright as a second sun even when her whole body’s shaking. She remembers the thrill of looking at Summer, of the terrible ideas forming like bruises on the girl’s collarbone, only to be crushed as Raven held two young girls and watched the stars shatter. Yang hasn’t felt the sting of the last part quite yet.

“Did you love her?” The question catches her mother off-guard, mouth hanging open.

“More than _anything._”

Raven stands, becoming Yang’s shadow for a brief second before placing a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

“Some people are worth breaking the rules for. Your real Mum was one of them.”

The door swings closed, silent save for the cawing of birds that followed the older woman wherever she went. Alone, Yang finally splits at the seams, drags the night sky down as she hits the floor for comfort. _-Everything you love-_, a voice snarls, the hint of a threat lingering in heavy air and slipping down into her throat. It’s real, but not for her. For the girl she knows but can never place. For someone she should’ve saved but has never met.

-

After retrieving a leather jacket from the back of Yang’s car, they make it back just in time for Blake’s speech, collar pulled up to hide the bruise on the base of her neck. She could talk about anything and Yang would listen. The words themselves aren’t anything out of the ordinary for a wedding speech; how she met Ilia, an embarrassing story about Pyrrha, the moment she realised they were perfect for each other. It’s only when she stops that Yang realises she’s never seen the faunus smile before, understands why she stepped in at eighteen. So that one day she’d be able to smile again, and that Yang might be there to see it.

“-And one last thing. If I _ever _find someone, I love that much to propose to? I hope they’re half as perfect for me as you guys are for each other.” Blake punctuates the remark with a glance at the photographer trying, and failing, to look disinterested at the bar, smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

The rest of the speeches disappear under the haze of whisky as figures across the room fall out of focus. Yang tugs at the elastic in her hair, lets it fall loose down her back as she turns to the bartender once again. Blake intercepts the drink as it slides across, neglecting the nearest stool to lean into Yang, arms stretched out onto the bar and cradling the glass between her hands. She does her best to hide the racing of her heart, drowning it in smooth scotch and using its burn to buy time.

“Now you owe me a dance.” Yang stops Blake’s train of thought cold, hand curling around the maid of honour’s wrist as she sets the glass down once again, makes a point of switching the one she’s using. Anything to truly feel Blake against her.

“That drink was payback for the hickey. You don’t get to make demands now,” she smirks and adjusts Yang’s grip as they head to the dancefloor.

“And yet we’re still dancing,” the blonde announces, laughs at herself for stating the obvious, “should we be doing this before the betrothed?”

“I don’t think they’ll mind. Not if it’s you.” Blake locks eyes with Ilia across the room, watches her friend’s dart to the girl she’s dragging and back.

“Really?”

“Really.”

-

Blake’s also seventeen when she finds out. Same age, same day of the week, same everything. Even the same blood-red, cleaving her arm clean off before she jolts awake, head lifting from Ilia’s lap and pulling her t-shirt back up onto one shoulder. She can still feel the heat despite nothing burning, the sting in her chest and numbness surrounding it. Moonlight still glitters through glass, but it rests firmly in its frame instead of broken on the floor. There would be a beat of silence if she weren’t panting, cold sweat beading on her face like icicles. Ilia speaks, just loud enough to carry over the ringing in Blake’s ears,

“It’s not real,” she reassures her, “whatever happened, you dreamt it.”

“What’s wrong, Blake?” Adam sneers, finally provoked to lean forward from the armchair, beer still in hand.

She had every reason to be scared of him. In another life, at least. As far as this one goes, his words embed themselves into her just as much as his hands do, leech whatever resistance she has against him until she thinks it’s her fault. Or rather, they did. Tonight? Tonight, she tugs at the bandages wound tight around her arms, every motion eliciting another step from the monster watching across the room. Ilia’s hand finds its way to her bare shoulder, Blake winces as it tightens on fresh bruises but keeps going. Every lie he’s ever told is unravelling like the wrappings on her arms, dark purples and reds the true colour of their relationship.

“Adam? W-what the _fuck?” _Ilia says, so fixated on Blake’s arm that the questions lose all intonation.

He stops, almost heartbroken at the notion.

“All you had to do was behave.”

“Goodbye, Adam.” Blake rises to meet him, heeled ankle boots making up for the disparity in height between them. The docile teenager had become the apex predator, bolstered by an unknown dragon’s fire.

“You can’t just leave!” the bull faunus screams, throwing his sunglasses against the wall so hard the lenses turn to black mist. “You’re _mine._”

“She can.” Ilia’s voice rattles, “we’re _both_ leaving.”

“What do you even see in _her?” _Adam’s question causes both of them to freeze, implication failing to go unnoticed.

“The same things she saw in you, once.”

They run so hard and fast into the night that they may as well be running back home. Of course, they can’t do that, not now. Adam knows where they live, and Blake knows they’re the first places he’ll check. She rushes down the path to a house at random, knocks on the door in the hope that the people inside understand; they _have _to understand. When a tall, blond man in his 40s appears, Blake knows they’re safe. Hardly understands the how or the why, but they’re safe.

“Sorry, my daughters are out for the night,” he jokes, awkwardly rubbing the back of his head,

“Can we… Can we stay here? For a few hours, at least. I need to call the police.” She doesn’t even realise how hard she’s pleading until the final word works its way into the air.

The stranger’s face hardens, still stepping out of the way to let them enter.

“It’s probably best if you show me a picture, as well.” He sighs, tension still weaving his brows together, “I may be old, but I’m still an ex-boxer.”

-

“I wrote this one,” Blake whispers, patiently holding two wine glasses while Yang gets her last photo of the evening, “it was my first single.” A first dance to the song that was playing when Pyrrha and Ilia got engaged.

“I can tell,” Yang says, hesitates to add what she’s thinking. _I can tell it’s really about us._

“Oh,” the maid of honour sighs, “I knew you could.”

_It’s not easy, but it’s a start_  
Take my world with you,  
Just don’t take my heart  
I know you can feel it too  
There’s more worlds for just me and you

Blake links their arms together and relaxes, stars smearing across the night sky as they step outside. Alone, she can finally lose herself in Yang without worrying, without questioning what might happen. Her smile is an invitation to start fresh, like freedom from the chaos she’s grown accustomed to living in. She relaxes into Yang, accepts her place in the universe willingly as the blonde places a kiss against her forehead. A freefall in gold instead of red, now hoping she never has to hit the ground, still sparkling with shards of the broken mirror they’d lost each other in.

“This shouldn’t be this easy,” Yang admits, looks over Blake’s shoulder at her prosthetic.

“It wasn’t. I left, and I’ve spent the last five years trying to think of what I’d say if I ever met you again.” There’s a splinter in her throat as she speaks, sobering and honest.

“And?”

“I d-don’t want to say anything. I just… I just want you to be kissing me. Please.”

So, she acquiesces. Maybe she’s the fool for going along with it. Her heart’s too far gone to be reasoned with, making every attempt to be closer to the other, cracking ribs and tearing skin. Yang brushes her hand against the musician’s cheek, lets it linger as she leans in, every exhale sounding like _I love you, _words she should say paling in comparison to the feeling of Blake beside her. The world falls quiet, as though taking a moment to appreciate its handiwork. There’s an inevitability to it, expectations that needed to be met all falling apart as everything around them does the same.

“I missed you,” Blake finally confesses, more like an answer to a question neither could phrase.

“Good. I missed you too.”

-

Atlas is so much more… Everything, than Yang expected. She’d grown up on Patch, unlike Weiss, who’d been raised in the city, only to be sent away when she could ask real questions. It’s winter, but Yang’s still wearing plaid flannel and jeans far more befitting of cool summer nights. The glow of her scroll illuminates her face as she walks through endless arrow-straight streets, too eerily perfect for her to be entirely at ease. A scream breaks through the city’s equivalent of silence, Yang’s boots crashing against the ground before she can even consider the alternatives. _Not this time, _her mind revolts, images of the red-haired man encroaching on her vision, _I won’t let him hurt you._

In the shadows, just like she’d expected. A faunus girl stands, no, cowers in the alleyway, monster in humanoid form holding the tell-tale crimson blade to her neck. Tears find themselves streaming down Yang’s cheeks, eyes glistening red as her scroll smashes against the ground.

“That’s enough!” She roars, swears fire lurches out of her lungs.

The sword turns on her, having previously been pressed so deep that it drew blood from the woman’s neck. Yang lifts her arms, feet as fast as always when a clumsy swing misses its mark. She’s a fighter through and through, toned muscles moving on instinct to beat him back. At least, she was.

“You’re going to die trying to protect her.”

Now it’s enough. Enough to throw her, to paralyze her with fear. Shock is replaced with pain, only able to see her severed arm for a brief moment before her sight blurs and fades.

Rhythmic beeps drone in Yang’s ears as she finally regains some semblance of consciousness. Light streams in from the window of the hospital room, harsh against closed eyes and warm on skin. Someone’s sitting beside her, sobs stuttering like record scratches as a hand tightens around her own, cold and shaking like she’d brought the Atlesian weather inside with her.

“I can’t stay with you. There’s… There’s something I have to do first.” A girl’s voice. Soft and assured unlike her composure, singing a lullaby of heartbreak and resolution. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Yang says, voice scraping, barely a whisper in the looming quiet, _don’t be sorry._ “Be the person I’ve been looking for my whole life.” Her eyes can just about make out the dark-haired figure now standing in the doorway, ready to leave.

“You haven’t been looking for me.” Blake’s face turns, golden eye focusing on the scene she’s running away from. It was a mistake. Seeing Yang was always going to be. Thousands of versions of herself fill the room; arguing, crying, sometimes just staring. She’s the only one that leaves.

-

“What _did _you have to do?” Her voice carves its way through the still air and into Blake’s ears, legs kicked up and over the latter on the steps outside the mansion.

“I had to live a life without you-” she downs the rest of her drink, stifles a giggle at Yang’s quizzical expression before continuing, “-without Adam, without any of the shit that I let control me.”

“Says the girl who got famous writing songs about me.” The joke receives its deserved amused sigh.

“Says the girl who’d spend days shut in her room because it was the place I saw you the most,” Blake lets the fact slip as though it’s normal, like ghosts of Yang are just a part of life. “I thought you might not be as pretty in person.”

“Well?”

“You’re not _just _pretty. You’re hot. Literally, how the fuck are you this warm, outside, at night?” She says, pushing Yang’s legs off her thighs.

“Call it my _burning _passion,” before Blake can react, the camera’s shutter clicks closed, capturing surprise and laughter in perfect balance.

-

Some demons are better left buried. Or, in Adam’s case, beaten to within an inch of his life and left to die by the one person who tried far too hard to save him. She’d left Atlas soon after Yang woke, unable to rest knowing _he _might go after her as long as Blake was around. He daren’t come near her while she stayed in Menagerie; Ghira and Kali may not have looked it, but they’d seen their fair share of fights in the White Fang. Instead, he waited like a lion, watching patiently for the youngest to leave the pack before pouncing.

Argus, the last stop before Atlas. The last stop before Yang. A gloved hand pulls her away from everyone else waiting to board an airship, roughly drags her past city limits to a waterfall, rushing so quickly it drowns out every thought.

“You can’t just leave.” Adam says it like it’s the final line in a curse, flashes the hint of a blade on his belt.

“I already did,” Blake spits, anger tearing through any veil of fear, _I left my heart to her._

The older man’s thumb and forefinger curl around her chin, tilt her face up as ears fold in and eyes widen. Her spine arches over an imagined railing, only to find no resistance and throw both of them off balance. He’s looming over her, but this time, they _both _see it. Adam, dropping to his knees with a pair of blades run through his chest.

“What does _she _have to do with this!” he booms, guns for Blake once again as she stands upright.

The swing is wide, and she remains planted as it falls short. “It was _never _about you.” Her knuckles whiten, nails digging deep into her palms as he tries to intimidate her again.

“Of course, it was about me. You left _me, _you turned _me _down over and over!” Finally, Adam’s blue eye glints, tugging at the red string around her arm. “Worst of all? You _let _me hurt someone else over you.”

“That’s not-” veins burst and stain her sleeve with emotions, “-not what happened. You came between us.” _As you always do._

“It’s ‘us’ now?” The bull faunus winces, “what happened to you and I, my love?”

_Love. _From his mouth, it bites like poison. Hollow and meaningless as always, but this time Blake knows it, ears paring back at the suggestion. Embers flare up in her periphery, another soul standing proud inside her while her own begs and pleads to run. She listens, accepts its help for the first time in this life, rewriting the rulebook in shades of lavender. In the white noise of rushing water, her shoes are silent with every step, holding one arm limp in the other with ears folded inwards.

-

The demon turns into a skeleton, sits amongst the clothes in Blake’s closet as a reminder even though it shouldn’t. She watches Yang’s chest rise and fall from a mirror on the inside of the door, pulls out a loose-knit cardigan before stepping into a pair of slippers and walking up to the roof of her apartment complex. It’s early; far too early to be awake on a weekend, but she _needs _to be awake. Last night really happened, the girl asleep one floor below is proof of that. The only words to describe it must be in languages she can’t speak, she concludes, unable to parse her own emotions.

“Hey.” That’s the word she was looking for. “It’s like, four-thirty in the morning and I have a serious case of Blake-not-being-in-bed-with-me. You okay?”

“Yeah, just… It’s really you, you know?” the faunus gestures vaguely, back still turned and voice unsure, “How could you still love me after what I did?”

“Because,” Yang’s arm finds itself around Blake’s waist, “this is what always happens to us. I know you’ve seen it as much as I have. They’re like dreams, but sometimes you swear they’re real. We always find each other again.”

“How do you know that? What if Adam… What if Adam was right? That one of these times you’ll get yourself killed trying to protect me?”

“So what if he was.” The reply’s indifference causes the shivering woman to sit upright; head bathed in the bronze of sunrise. “I’m here, and that’s all that matters.”

“But-”

“Blake. I spent weeks trying to work out what it was that scared you so much in the hospital.” She shifts her arm from Blake’s torso, pressing her palms into the edge of the roof and dangling her legs over the side. “It wasn’t him. It was the thought of losing _me._”

Yang strikes a chord, resonates with Blake’s and gives her room to expand into. “Seeing you after that night, i-it broke part of me. I wasn’t worth that. I wasn’t worth anything you did for me.” Something subtle fractures in Blake’s composure, lower lip trembling before being caught between Yang’s, softer this time; familiar.

“You’re not the one who decides things like that,” her voice nearly carries away on the breeze, mouth against her partner’s cheek, “I’d do it all again if I had to.” _In fact, I’m sure I have._

“I don’t want you to.”

_I’ve seen what your ghosts do,_  
From dark corners in blackened rooms,  
I know you can feel it too,  
There’s more worlds for just me and you.

“Then that’s enough for me.”

-

Twenty. The number seems so meaningless without Yang to celebrate it. She’s smiling, laughing, even, but it’s all empty gestures, a performance to satisfy the friends she keeps at arm’s length. Ilia keeps watching her, glancing across the open kitchen and into the living room as the last drops of rum fall into a half-full cup of coke. Playing with the long, frayed sleeves of her jumper just like she did as a teenager; Blake never changes. Always thinking about others before herself. Even when _the _Pyrrha Nikos sidles up to her, glass of water in hand, she barely notices, irises still iridescent blue and lost on her friend until the field star speaks up.

“I take it she’s not doing as well as she looks.”

“Huh? Oh…” Ilia’s cheeks flush as they move imperceptibly, pre-empting her response, “Something like that.”

A bottle of vodka, fitted between Blake’s fingers like a hard-to-remove wedding ring, its contents doing their level best to keep her in the moment. In the haze, she can pretend to forget. After all, it’s not like she has a heart to remember the emotions Yang carved into it. Even the busy room is devoid of anything worth her attention, dark, as college parties are known to be, and suffocating. _Maybe the hangover will buy me even more time, _she surmises, head rocking back again to empty the bottle. Sun slides through the crowd with unnerving ease, tapping on the birthday girl’s shoulder and trying his best to bury the concern away from his face.

“Hey Blake. Can I get you anything? You look like you need-” he pauses, recognising the mask she wears despite the act, “-a friend. Let’s step outside, you can tell me _everything_. Or nothing, but I’m not leaving until you’re enjoying yourself a bit more.”

They head to the balcony and everyone knows to leave. There’s a look in her eyes that speaks volumes about the emptiness behind them, un-focusing and dull.

“What is it?” Blake says, aimless frustration already boiling over.

“I wanna know what happened, that’s all.” Sun knows it isn’t directed at him; or, if he didn’t, he was doing a good job of not letting on. “I have a feeling you weren’t always like… well, this.”

“Then you’re a terrible judge of character. I run. That’s what I _do_. I ran from Adam, I ran from Yang, and now? I’m running to the bottom of a bottle to forget the other two.”

“If you know what you’re doing, then why-”

“Because I don’t have a choice!” She runs a free hand beneath both eyes, collecting tears faster than they can form. “Not anymore.”

“Nope.”

“What?”

“You’ve got one, _very _easy choice.” His thumb replaces hers, wiping mascara with tears, “and I’m not going anywhere until you make it.”

Endearingly stubborn. In hindsight, that’s likely why Blake kept him around. A voice of reason when all of hers went mute. The vodka slips from her grasp, falls over the guard rail and smashes against concrete.

“Go back to her. Someday. Promise me.”

“If only it were that simple.”

She wants to break apart in much the same way as the bottle.

-

“I know you’re worried about her.” Pyrrha claims; alcohol has its own way of sapping tact, of provoking responses.

Ilia can’t stop looking at the pair talking outside. “I wish I wasn’t.” She slams the cup down a little harder than intended, feelings swirling together and indistinguishable. “…That was blunt. Sorry.”

“I enjoy blunt. It makes a change from all the ‘suggestions’ I get from professional coaches. Blunt is nice.” She’s repeating herself, tripping over words and falling down sentences. “How did you two meet, anyway?”

“I heard her singing. She’ll tell you she only decided to do that last year, and she’s right; Adam Taurus talked her into it before that.”

“Blake… doesn’t seem like the type to be talked into anything.” Pyrrha steadies herself against the kitchen counter, sliding over to let someone get a drink and watching Ilia mirror her. The shorter girl’s reaction is enough to know she should be prepared.

“She isn’t. I didn’t know that at the time. She got up on some side-stage and I thought she was _beautiful._ Part of an ‘upcoming talent’ set for the label hosting the festival; I was part of the crew.”

“Did you ever tell her how you felt?”

“I-” Ilia’s throat closes around the truth, “-not until we ran away. Adam brought me along as her assistant, like making me watch them together was his idea of a sick joke.”

It’s likely being drunk that influences their reactions. Scratch that, it’s _definitely _being drunk. Pyrrha pulls her into a hug, and for once, Ilia doesn’t resist, instead trying to find safety in a maroon sweater and another girl’s arms around her. Any concerns about wrong impressions rise only to be felled by the red-haired girl’s hand against the back of her head, against whispers that she won’t have to go through it again.

“How did she react?” Pyrrha continues, using her foot to push the kitchen’s door closed.

“She didn’t feel the same way. We moved on, moved past it-past _him _together. I still love her, but it’s different now.” Ilia says, like she’s underlining the end to make a point.

“Different?”

“I found someone else.”

They leave the conversation there; admissions past that deserve sobriety, and they’re far from sober now. Blake finds them tangled together as everyone else leaves, decides that’s what love really looks like even if they both struggle to admit it. The definition changing is her first step on the right path.

-

Meanwhile, Yang’s already broken. Blake courses through her veins and it’s an overdose. _But I’m fine_, she says, closes open wounds around the sentiment and walls it off so long that it becomes normal. Her fingers work around the edges of a sealed envelope, watching the busy office while she waits for Weiss to finish a call. Work’s a substitute, but it pales in comparison to the real thing. She gathers her hair into a high ponytail before doing up the two buttons on the black blazer of an expertly tailored pantsuit, fake smile doing its job as her friend pulls the glass door open.

“As requested,” Yang says, letting the envelope’s contents spill out onto the plain wooden desk. “You should be able to get out of this shitty, small office with these.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Weiss asks most of the question to the door, turning the lock and straightening her pencil skirt while walking back to the desk, “This isn’t about the office, Yang.”

“Are you sure? I think it’s a _little _bit about the office, Miss Schnee.” The formality is thick with sarcasm, and Yang could probably have picked out hints of a smile if she weren’t already busy looking over the photos.

Weiss pauses, hands tenting themselves together in front of her stomach.

“There’s enough room in there for both of us. If you want to stay.”

“I’ll just get in the way,” she lies, accepts that her friend fails to believe her.

“Well, if you’re going to keep bringing me shots like these, there has to be _something _I can do to return the favour.”

“Adam Taurus.”

“Who-?”

“The producer. _And_ the one who put me in the hospital.”

“Is he…”

“Dangerous?” Yang catches Weiss gazing at the yellow and steel-grey hand tracking back past her wrist. “Yes.”

“I was going to say infallible.” She crosses one leg over the other as she sits, looking at the blonde while typing. “Do you have any ideas where to start?”

_Yeah, _she thinks, _the girl I can’t even escape from in my dreams._

“Nothing concrete,” she says, and for once it’s close to the truth.

-

“_What do you mean you’re not coming back yet?_” Weiss’s disbelief crackles through the speaker as Yang shakes her head, pacing around Blake’s apartment.

“I met a girl.” The answer stuns her friend enough that she can roll her eyes.

“_Oh, you met a girl!? Then sure! Put your whole fucking life here on hold!_”

“It’s the one I went looking for in Atlas.”

Nothing, barring the inherent noise from the connection.

“_… What’s her name?” _Weiss asks after a laboured inhale.

“Blake.”

“_The maid of honour? You’re sure it’s the same girl?”_

“She remembers the craziest shit, Weiss. Like me. Honestly, I’m still not entirely sure if she was just lying to get me to kiss her.” Yang dodges a cushion, thrown unceremoniously from her girlfriend’s supine position on the couch. “Anyway, I already told her I’d be in town for the next few days. Why don’t you take them off as well?”

“_You are aware you work for me, right?”_

“Actually, I’m freelance. Besides, without my expert eye, maybe someone else will _finally_ get a shot at the front page.” She can picture Weiss’s head shaking, sinking into her hand in response to Yang’s boasting. “What about Velvet? She’s improved a lot since Beacon.”

“_I’ll think about it.”_

The line dies without anything else being said. They’ve been a constant in each other’s lives since they were both seventeen; teasing one another until they reached the top of their respective games. _Nothing I have to sign _was Yang’s only requirement for exclusive photos. Assignments and deadlines hold no meaning when searching for a soulmate, regardless. Today, it sank in. The endless backing, the encouragement, the freedom; all of it because Weiss bought into her madness years ago. And the slim chance she was good at her job.

“I still can’t believe you work with _Weiss Schnee_,” Blake adds, lifting her legs to allow Yang beneath them.

“Who do you think got all the pictures exposing her father? An amateur?”

“Well…”

“Don’t answer that.” A slender finger rests atop Blake’s lips, and she remains quiet; watches in awe as crimson seeps into Yang’s irises. “I’d hate to break up with you before the end of the week.”

“You could never break up with me,” she sings, slightly muffled by the blonde’s hand, playful side moulding around the truth, “I’m perfect for you.”

“Will you ever stop quoting my playlists back at me?”

“When you stop making playlists of songs I wrote.”

-

Kali never says anything when Blake stumbles in late at night, or walks in perfectly sober with a scarf wrapped tight around her neck and sleeves rolled down to her knuckles. Even now, swabbing a cut above the girl’s eyebrow, she can read the story in scars and souvenirs, exposed by a dark blue crop-top. Her daughter arrived home before the semester ended, suitcase in hand and guilt pushing down on her. She’s never asked what happened, but it’s in moments like these that pieces of the puzzle get relinquished.

“Mum? -agh, _shit-,_” Blake grits her teeth as alcohol meets the wound.

Kali only hums to affirm that she’s listening.

“About… When I came back,” She pauses, patient while her cut is treated, “I met _her_ before I did.”

“The blonde girl? Was she pretty?” Spoken with an understanding beyond her years.

“Beautiful.” _And I left her alone, _she wants to say, wants to draw feelings like blood so they can be replaced.

“Yet you still didn’t stay.” Kali’s lips wear themselves into a line, “You’re safe here, Blake. I don’t ever want you to think otherwise.”

Ghira knows; he wouldn’t be a father if he didn’t, but he also knows better than to take a crowbar to Blake’s shutters. After all, it’s not as if he never picked fights for the wrong reasons in his youth. Sometimes it’s all to forget a name. _Yang, _he’d overheard it once when she fell asleep on the couch, saw how she tossed and turned in a vain attempt to exorcise it from her consciousness. Two measured knocks on the study door interrupt the contemplation, followed by a voice he still wasn’t quite used to hearing again.

“Are you busy?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Stepping through the old doorway, she glances at her feet as her father stands, moving from behind his desk to the sofa. It’s as though he can sense the extra weight, look past her shoulders and _see _Yang’s arm around them, thumb stroking soft lines with a wide grin plastered on her face. Blake wants so badly to feel what they can both see. Shrugging her jacket off, she joins him, watches the fire crackling and blinks until tears blur her eyes and fall onto her jeans.

“Do you want to return to Atlas?” He asks, as neutrally as possible.

“I don’t know,” Blake responds, “it’s not like there’s anything left for me there. I gave up a scholarship because I got _scared._”

“You’re allowed to be scared-”

“What if I didn’t have to be!?” She snaps, vitriol searing each breath, “what if… what if there’s a different reason I dropped out.”

“Then it just wasn’t meant to happen.” Ghira’s tone placates her own slightly, unfazed by the outburst. “Tell me; what do you _want _to do with yourself?”

“I…” _I never want to lose Yang again. _“I’d like to sing. My own songs.”

-

She ends up bringing Blake back with her. After a hastily-packed bag and reminder they can share clothes, at least. They’re still waiting for her guitar; she’d insisted on bringing it, won Yang over with talk of _The Atlas Sessions, _though she didn’t admit that until she had wrung another hickey out to sweeten the deal. Their hands interlock in Blake’s white jacket pocket, a lazy ease to everything they do. They found each other again, and this time the past truly fades.

“Uh oh. Someone left their Mum waiting outside,” Blake digs an elbow into Yang’s ribs and points at Weiss with the whole arm, leaning against a white BMW and shooting daggers in her direction.

“What do you think she’s gonna do? Ground me? Take my scroll?”

“Take all your fun away?” She lets go, happily this time, before raising the same hand in a motionless wave, “I’m her fun.”

“And _I’m _the CEO of an international media corporation.” Weiss sighs, unlocking the car and sliding into the driver’s seat in what looks like a practiced motion. In fact, everything about her has the same air of rehearsal, fluid and stilted all at once.

_It shows, _Blake bites her cheek to stop herself saying it. Looks and movements she’s only seen in reflections until now, hallmarks of similar situations and unreasonable expectations. She wonders if Yang’s always seen that; if it’s been true for so long that helping both of them is instinct for her. They pull up outside a respectable townhouse, yellow door standing out against the clean whites and blues of the rest of the city.

“Do you know _why _I’m not exactly thrilled about you being back?” Weiss begins, perhaps harsher than she’d wanted to sound.

“Do I want to?” Blake echoes.

“Her birth mother left.” Weiss says, staring out of the windscreen as the woman in the passenger seat turns to face her, “Then, when she was about six years old, her half-sister’s mother, Summer, died.”

“Why tell me all this?” Blake knows why.

“Because that’s what people do to her. They run, or die, or break her heart so much that I don’t even understand how she’s still alive.”

“I won’t leave her.”

“I’m not the one you should be saying that to.” She directs their attention to the blonde woman currently lugging five separate suitcases and a guitar up the stairs to her door.

Without another word, Blake’s rushing over to help, smile still tinged by Weiss’s words, but laughing all the same.

-

Falling in step is easy when you never stop moving. That’s what Blake thought, until now. She plucks guitar strings and every single one lines up with Yang. She writes lyrics like tattoos traced on the blonde's back, neat cursive spiralling endlessly, uncontrollably. A melody that no longer sounds haunted; the empty space occupied by giggles and spirals of gold hair listening intently, her voice softer than previously. An audience of one, and the only audience that ever really mattered.

“You _have _to let me make the cover art,” Yang pleads, setting a mug down on the small table beside her only chair before sitting on the carpet, legs tucked underneath her.

“I can see it now; “power couple takes music and art industries by storm with collaboration.” We might even get a photo of us kissing on the front of a gossip magazine.” Blake jokes, setting her guitar down and sipping the cup of tea while adjusting her tank top and picking at rips in her jeans.

“Only if I get to set it up. Paparazzi always get the _worst _shots. Did you have anything in mind?”

“How about… Something candid?” An eyebrow raises as she says it, expecting a suggestive response.

Yang’s lips curl, deliberately playing into her girlfriend’s hands, “Half naked, facing away from the camera? Got it.”

“With your arm wrapped around my waist.” Blake crosses the line as though it were never there in the first place, buys into the dangerous game with hooded eyes and dilating pupils.

“Pressing my head against yours,” she retorts, rising to her knees and leaning in so her forehead meets the singer’s own, “final offer,” so close that the heat of the words sets their skin ablaze.

“Kissing-” there’s meant to be a _you_ to end the sentence. _But I don’t want this to end, _Blake reiterates, dragging Yang’s lower lip between her own as she stands.

She’d stay in this second forever if she could. Remnants of daylight paint the room, scatter through blonde hair and make it seem even brighter; her eyes flutter closed once more, the same colours washing into her soul like they were always meant to be. She runs her tongue along Yang’s lip and gives in to the rush, heartbeat becoming static compared to soft skin under her hands. With a measure of reluctance, she releases the moment, allows it to pass like any other before dropping her hands down to the loose flannel at her girlfriend’s waist.

“Something like that?”

“Yeah,” Yang hums while straightening her shirt, “something like that.”

-

“_That Blonde Girl_? Aren’t you already being obvious enough?” Sun matches the shrug of indifference with a look conveying the same.

“I’m not good at titles,” Blake groans, exasperation wearing away at her relaxed posture, “but if you’re such a genius, why don’t you come up with a better one?”

“_To All the Girls I Thought I Loved.”_

“Fuck. That’s actually good.” She leans into the high-backed armchair, face covered by her palms in a way her friend recognises immediately. He’s still thoroughly convinced it was the alcohol talking when she brought it up. And yet, part of him is a little pleased she allows him to be around for it now.

There, in as much nothingness as she could muster, Yang comes into focus. Cradling her; Blake’s head resting gently in her lap as relief and sadness overflow in equal measure. It’s not this life; it never is, always distant enough that the only imprint left is the emotion. Yang’s in her DNA, part of her makeup, keeping her together when existence breaks down to its basest forms. _What do you think? _she calls into the void, pointing at lights in the sky from Yang’s lap as they blink out. _We caused this once, talking should be easy._ The vision flickers and suddenly she’s sitting where Sun is, turned towards Blake on the couch, talks like she’s in the room herself.

“I could listen to you forever,” she speaks in soft yellows and harsh blacks, settles into the wreckage Adam left and smooths her edges, “the only name that matters is yours, Belladonna.”

“_The Girl I Know I Loved._” Blake shifts back into reality again as she adjusts the title one last time.

“It’s good!” Sun would have given his seal of approval on anything after that. It’s pointless arguing with what _she _says anyway. “Anything else you need help with?”

“Actually… I really appreciate you helping me fix my car crash of a life, Sun. I’d also really appreciate if you didn’t act like I’m gonna break if you sneeze on me.”

“It’s cool, I _totally _get it. Not that I like, actually get what’s going on with you, but you know who you’re supposed to be with.” He smiles, earnest as always; she’s still not used to honesty being met with happiness.

“Next time you might find a partner who isn’t already in love with someone else,”

“You’re right! Now that I’m in the music business, I might have a shot with Neptune!”

Blake’s expression only softens at her own follow-up;  
“You’d have that shot anyway.”

Catching Sun off-guard is something only she has ever been able to do.

“Please. Don’t tell me you two thought you were being subtle in college.”

“We were being _drunk _in college. Huge difference.”

“Only if getting drunk gives Neptune a huge crush on you,” She rolls her eyes emphatically, picking his scroll up from the desk and throwing it to the couch, “call him. If he says yes, you have to buy ten copies of my single.”

-

Yang buys the album for what’s left of herself. Sent to Vale “on assignment,” the apartment Weiss was renting her became a home as quickly as she expected, keys clattering down the breakfast bar as she pads to the stereo system in the corner. Black-haired illusions call her a music snob from the other side of the counter; she knows the girl she loves has a more extravagant setup regardless.

“_Alone Together, _huh,” Yang mutters, still staring at the image of the woman tuning her guitar on the record’s cover, surrounded by angels. The needle finds its place on the two-tone disc automatically, and her voice finally floats through the air again.

_I’m still burning a candle_  
Your fire’s something only I can handle  
Touch me, scald me, anything, please  
I’d give anything for the sweet release.

“Is that really how you think of me?” she replies in the dead air. The lyrics follow like a response. She unravels with them.

-

The long phone calls and stacks of empty takeaway food boxes all seem worth it once they arrive at the location. Blake slides the soft-shell guitar case off the back seats of Yang’s, formerly her father’s, Camaro; they’d have taken Bumblebee if it weren’t for news of the musician’s arrival finally breaking through their friend’s lockdown.

“Remind me again why the _bright yellow _Camaro is any less subtle than me wrapping myself around you on a bike?” Blake asks, throwing her arms through the case’s straps while blonde hair disappears out of sight, reaching for a case of lenses in the car’s boot.

“Because,” she re-emerges, pushing a pair of aviators over her eyes with one hand, keys and camera equipment in the other, “this car is invisible.”

“What?”

“Every celebrity that gets to Atlas fails at sneaking around. Why? Because everyone is in someone’s pocket. The only one who knows I have this is Weiss.”

“And if Weiss tips someone off?”

“She’d be paying me double until I die; even the famous Ice Queen can’t cover that.”

A garden on the roof of the CCT, and a full day to get all the shots she might want. Business doesn’t stop Yang’s jaw slackening as she steps out of the elevator, a guardrail the only thing between her and the city hundreds of metres below. _If this is what power feels like, _she thinks, _I can understand getting drunk on it._ The power, she realises as she turns, is all Blake’s. There’re hints of it in the way she stands; she’s known control like this before, adjusts to it reflexively. Yang looks past her, past the edge of her world, and she knows it’s them. Blake’s in a black trench coat instead of thick leggings and one of Yang’s parkas, ash dancing around and settling on bone-white and wine red. This time it’s her watching everything get torn asunder. Maybe it’s a bitter cycle, and they’re just playing for as much time as they can get. Maybe Yang takes a step she didn’t last time. Maybe Blake’s carrying an instrument in place of a sword.

She takes the first photo on her scroll. A river of midnight-coloured hair against pale sky, the tint of her cheek visible through the ribbons of darkness as her ears perk up in the faint heat of sunlight. Dew from the morning’s frost wets black canvas trainers, guitar case straps held limply in one hand while an exhale condenses. She’s too pretty up here to be shared with the rest of the world, that’s nearly what Yang says.

“If that one’s really good we’re using it,” Blake shouts, ears turned in the direction of the camera shutter,

“It’s horrible,” her girlfriend motions for her to come back and see for herself, “I can’t see your face, for a start.”

“You’re okay sharing that much of me with my fans?”

“No. But it’ll sell better to certain crowds.”

“The type of crowd I don’t want.”

“About that… uh-” Yang catches herself too late, bites her tongue before feeling the mounting pressure on her arm.

“It’s okay.” Blake repeats, fingers weaving between metal fingers, “tell me.”

“I did some digging. Well, Weiss _and _I did some digging. If he finds you- if he finds _us _again, I-”

“I’m not going anywhere, Yang.” She kisses her like it’s the last breath she’ll ever need, and gives it willingly. “I don’t have to.”

-

The waterfall hides his advance. He grabs her throat, turns the blade inwards and pushes past resistance into her abdomen. It only hurts once he pulls the knife out.

“I wouldn’t have to do this if you had just behaved!” Adam yells, unsteady on his feet and eyes close to bloodshot. “Now you’ll never get to see her again.”

“Fuck. You.” Blake repeats, palm warm and slick with blood. The threat numbs her arm as she continues, “I’m not scared of you, Adam.”

“Oh, I never thought you were scared of me. I just thought you loved me.”

“No,” she replies, and her pulse is in her head, her chest, against her hand. “Never again.”

Every step sends pain radiating across her body; all she can focus on is the next one. And the next one. And the next one. Her shoulder meets his sternum. Adam falls, weapon spiralling beside him. She’s not sure what makes her fall to the ground; relief, exhaustion and grief all feel the same when the world’s thrown off its axis. He’s _gone_. His claws slip loose, the gashes left behind reminding her what it’s like to feel, to live, to breathe without weight on her chest.

-

“I-I don’t really remember what happens next,” Blake says, “only that I collapsed on the outskirts of Argus.”

She expects Yang to pull away, not hold her closer. So close that the sound of the blonde’s breathing competes against her own and wins, body heat turning winter into summer between them. Yang kisses her, grounds her against the will of eternity, gears of fate grinding to a halt against it. She’s caught somewhere between infinity and the end of everything, fingers splayed against her shoulder blades as Yang whispers;

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” They both recognise the role reversal for what it is. Blake knows what she should’ve said. “I’ve heard enough apologies to last a lifetime. Just… be Yang. Be the woman I wrote two hundred songs about.”

“Two hundred?” Yang sniffles, crooked smile forming under reddened eyes, “you’ve only released fifteen.”

“I know. I plan ahead.” She shifts slightly, comfortably, into the crook of Yang’s neck, pulls her girlfriend’s coat over herself. She directs her attention towards the photo once more, “You’re right. I do look awful.”

“Maybe it’s the camera,” Yang reasons, head tilted to rest on Blake’s.

“It’s probably the subject.”

“Oh, baby, no. Go back over there and I’ll take a _real_ one to prove you wrong.”

Blake turns her back on Yang and no longer feels the need to look over her shoulder; her life’s precisely where she left it. She closes her eyes to the sun’s light, sees Yang burn in its place as she should be, ears twitching at the first unexpected shutter closing. _I won’t run, or die, or break her heart, _Blake promises, etches it into her bones where time can never make it fade, _leaving now would be a crime._ There’s too much of Yang in her blood to go anywhere else.

-

The first single releases to wild success. Of course it does, Yang will say, people want to hear all about me when you’re the one telling them. Weiss encourages them to use the blurry phone shot, claims there’s something appealing about candid beauty compared to deliberate. Blake walks into dive bars and plays the new songs on open mic nights, sits happily with one leg on a well-used stool as fans show them tattoos of her lyrics, her logo and previous album cover. She answers them all while stealing glances across the room at Yang in a brown leather jacket and jeans, amethyst eyes glittering and lips wrapped around the rim of a glass of some hard liquor or another.

“I think it’s time to go.” Blake waves from the opposite end just like they’d rehearsed.

Yang’s head tips back, emptying the glass and rocking forward onto her feet, boots matching her jacket and giving her the requisite inches to tower over most of the patrons.  
“Okay, Belladonna,” she answers, revels in the realisation washing over their faces, momentarily untouchable. “let’s get out of here.”

The rumours are confirmed by morning, maybe earlier, depending which website you checked. Blake Belladonna has a _girlfriend, _like it’s some scandal to be so hastily documented they don’t even check the facts. Naturally, she only accepts an interview with Weiss’s tabloid anyway, and on the condition the CEO herself conduct the interview. That doesn’t stop rivals crowding around Yang’s car to get photos that will most likely earn them a promotion.

“I thought we agreed on exclusivity,” the blonde jests, leaning her hand onto the lock button to whisper into Blake’s ear, “or is that only on the dating front?”

“Please. Like these people could even take a good picture to save their life.”

“God, imagine the headlines: _Two very good friends make out!_ _Is this a new level of platonic!?_” Yang beams, happy with her own joke.

“_Platonic. _Good name for a love song.” She adds, her girlfriend’s laugh enough to subdue the shouts of paparazzi outside.

The engine and Yang’s foot on the gas is the next thing to do so. A detour past the Schnee offices sends the ‘journalists’ around them into a frenzy, reaching into pockets and calling superiors to say they were misinformed, but still try to catch a picture of them together. Blake scrolls through her music and settles on something Yang might recognise, lets its cadence overtake her and the sky expand out of her reach. She doesn’t need to keep the world so small with Yang nearby.

-

There’s a hint of surprise when someone besides Weiss answers the door. Yang had known for a few months now that she was seeing another girl, but-

“Coco?” Her jaw drops, “Weiss is sleeping with her _chief editor_?” She enunciates, incredulity wicking along the question.

“What can I say? I’m the only one who knows what Weiss wants.” Coco says, leaves the double entendre where it lands.

“Is it because you call her ‘Miss Schnee’ on request?” Blake challenges, wicked smile rivalling the devil.

Yang follows the same line, eyes flashing red, “I think it’s the praise.”

“It’s because she _doesn’t _want anything from me.” A tired Weiss replies, hair loose and touching the floor. She’s conducting an interview in an hour, but right now she’s glaring at her guests in one of Coco’s blouses.

“And yet I gave you everything you wanted last night,” Coco refutes, “I’m surprised you’re even walk-”

“This is _not _something I’m discussing right now.” Weiss pulls her girlfriend around by the belt at her waist, “we can talk about it over brunch in a few hours.”

“I think she loves me,” the editor adds, stepping past the pair in the doorway and instantly adopting a cooler persona, pulling sunglasses from her collar and resting them where they should be. “She should.”

-

“Why don’t we start with the obvious. Your next album; it’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

When the interview starts, Blake realises why Weiss has never _really _been just the CEO. With her hair back in its usual ponytail and make-up applied immaculately, she wouldn’t look out of place as the interviewee, let alone the one asking questions. It’s a restrained form of openness, rehearsed and constrained by formality rather than kindness. The sort that invites honesty, implies privacy, only to record every word perfectly.

“Yeah, it is. Everyone needs a change sometimes, so I came here. I think its influence shows in a few tracks, especially _Heroes and Monsters _and _Lighting the Fire_.”

“Would you say it’s a radical departure from your first release?” Weiss leads.

“I… I was in a completely different situation three years ago.” Blake follows, maintains the pretence, “This time there’s more accompaniment, compared to the ‘a girl and her guitar’ vibe _Alone Together _had.” _It sounds more like me._

“Is there a theme? As I recall, most fans picked up on the common threads of recovery and longing in that album.”

“Finding yourself. And finding people to help with that. _Like Morning _has a very specific person it’s referring to, and I’m sure he’ll pick up on it when it comes out in a week.”

Yang mimes throwing up from behind her tripod, setting the camera up for the front-page shoot. Blake laughs, and she wants to make it a headline, make everyone’s lives about her so they have a chance at understanding.

Weiss clears her throat, preventing the entertainment from spiralling, “speaking of coming out, there’s been, how do I put this delicately, unsubstantiated? Rumours about you having a girlfriend. Maybe this is outside the scope of our interview, but I think your fans and our readers have an interest.”

“It’s fine.” She winds a curl of hair around her finger; there’s a narrative here that she wants to control, “people wanting to know every detail of your personal life is the _real_ price of being famous, after all. How about this; if you buy _The Atlas Sessions, _it’ll confirm those rumours for you.”

-

There’s sensational, then there’s seeing your girlfriend on the cover of a magazine. Yang jokes about framing it only to leave for a few hours and return with it ready to hang. They curl up on the couch in pyjamas and laugh at how formal she sounds; how clinical the questions are. Blake’s single debuts in the Top 10, no doubt from people trying to decipher if she does, in fact, have a boyfriend instead.

“You’re practically _super _famous now.” Yang grabs her in a side-hug as she reads the review on iTunes, “_-her fresh new outlook is reflected in the song, using a softer voice and less sombre tuning._”

Blake stops her with fingers against her cheek, slipping further around her neck and letting their eyes meet. She watches as ideas shape themselves out of purple and gold, turn deep crimson and then to ash as she bites her lip; Yang’s effect on her is much the same as fire in a forest left unchecked, all-consuming. The intensity builds even as she releases it, captured between Yang’s own. Songs could never do her justice, not like this, not like every intimate and sinful thought made manifest. Not when she’s the only thing that matters.

“I love you.” Blake sighs, leaning back against the blonde’s shoulder.

“I think I’m in love with this new singer/songwriter actually,” Yang might well be baring fangs as she says it, “something Belladonna? She looks cute on her new album cover.”

“Oh yeah, she’s pretty. _And _she’s your type.” The sarcasm would be insufferable to anyone watching.

“But I’m stuck with you.”

“Could be worse. You could’ve gotten Weiss.”

“Don’t even joke about that.”

The raven-haired woman’s phone vibrates, cutting the otherwise endless cycle short; it’s Sun, about the new single.

_im surprised you even had enough room in ur head for a song abt me_

She smiles, lets Yang read her reply over her shoulder,

_Think of it as a thank you present_

_i will_

-

The wheel of news reinvents itself to revolve entirely around them, around _Blake Belladonna _and her ‘love triangle.’ Trying to explain that _Like Morning _is platonic is a lost cause; one website even reached out to Sun for a comment, only to disregard his explanation when he corroborated Blake’s own. They return to Vacuo to meet him a few weeks before release, the arid city surrounding Shade a welcome reprieve from the constant buzz in Atlas.

“They don’t _actually _care what the song is about.” He shrugs, scrolling mindlessly through the social media tags about the pair on his laptop. “But you both knew that already.”

“When the whole album releases, I think they’ll work it out.” Blake responds,

“Yeah, _track one: I’m dating Yang Xiao Long_ should sort out all the questions.” Yang adds, presses her lips to her girlfriend’s hair.

“It won’t sort her ego, unfortunately.”

“I think that’s incurable,” Sun says, reclines in his chair to look at them on the sofa beside his desk, “unless you try like, hypnotherapy or something.”

“Is that what you did with Neptune?”

“No comment.”

-

Another week, and they're in Blake’s apartment; which is nearly empty at this point. Weiss has been pestering her about selling the place for months, on account of ‘practically living with Yang anyway’. She’d refute it if it weren’t true. Sleep comes easier when it’s in a house exorcised of demons, when you’re living with the devil who can make them all kneel instead of have them at beck and call. A ukulele is among the last things to be taken; this is her last day to move out, and she spends it eating cheap takeaway pizza sitting on the floor with Yang, both wearing one of Blake’s dresses each.

“Just _one _song,” the blonde begs, her best attempt at puppy eyes balanced out by a mouthful of cheese and tomato sauce, “for me.”

“Only if you promise not to post it to my YouTube channel when we get back as some sort of ‘unplugged’ video.” Blake steadies herself on one hand as she leans back to pick up the small instrument, covered in decals from her first tour.

“What about my Story?”

“That, you _can _do.”

-

Her notifications blow up so much that she has to disable them. Blake, sitting on the floor of her apartment in a deep purple dress that stops at mid-thigh, singing _Alone Together _in her new style.

_At least one outlet will record this_, Weiss texts, circumventing Yang’s Do Not Disturb.

_i know, _she replies, and keeps filming her girlfriend.

They all love the story of it; of fate leading two people, perfect matches, back to each other. She prefers how Blake tells it, how it drips from every lyric and paints her features. Her voice captures so much more than an article on paper ever could, allows for pain where print could never, wouldn’t dare to do so. Yang hollers and whistles as the short, private session ends, switches cameras and blows a kiss to the one facing her to cap off the night. Blake returns to her own scroll and taps a message to her producer, visibly determined;

_Could I record a message onto one of the rough copies?_

-

“Did you know that artists used to sneak bonus tracks onto CDs in the extra space?” Blake asks, tosses an early copy of her next album to Yang, smiles as she removes it from the plastic wallet, traces the dulled edges and faded Sharpie on its face like she does her girlfriend’s day-old mascara and tattered jean-shorts.

“Did you know people stopped using CDs like, fifteen years ago?” She smirks, something close to a challenge. If she weren’t lounging around the house in a baseball shirt and jeans it might be one.

“Oh, does that mean I have to throw out the mix tape I made for you as well?”

“Just send me the link to the Spotify playlist. I _saw _you listening to the songs anyway.”

Blake almost looks insulted at the notion. Stepping across to the sound system, she gestures behind herself for Yang to pass the album, closes the tray and presses rewind instead of play. Her voice blasts from the speakers instead of her mouth, which turns up at the corners as she watches for a reaction, leans against the audio tower with glassy eyes. She isn’t singing, and that’s what draws Yang in; her voice raw, running _to _a point rather than away.

“I thought I’d never see you again. I _promised _myself I wouldn’t. Like that somehow makes up for the shit I caused, hurting _this _you.”

“You didn’t hurt me, Blake.” Yang says, automatic, still enrapt. Blake shakes her head, knows how automatic the urge to protect is; _protect _isn’t really the right word, she notes, warps it into _love _in vibrant lilac lettering.

“And now, I’m sitting in a recording booth with three people staring at me because I couldn’t put all of this into words with _you _staring at me. Yang, I’ll never ask you for forever; I don’t think I’ve earned the right.”

_Oh, but you have, _the blonde will whisper when they’re wrapped around each other tonight. _Forever and then some_.

“—But I’ll ask you for the rest of this life.”

The ring isn’t especially flashy; not to an outsider, not to someone whose name isn’t Blake or Yang. A gold band beset with black granite and amethysts, a piece of Yang that Blake took six years ago and dredged out of her being to return. A piece she doesn’t need now that she has a home.

“Blake, I—”

“Please?” She asks, dropping to one knee from relaxing against the cabinet and pulling her (Yang’s) tan sweater back down with a free hand.

_Marry me _spills from the speakers immediately after, before the opening notes of _Paint the Town _colour Yang’s answer.

“I would’ve said yes ever since I met you.”


End file.
